


The Hitchhiker's Guide

by LonelyPsycho, MrsLadyNight



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: AU, M/M, Road Trips, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-08-10
Packaged: 2020-05-31 03:44:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 19,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19417798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LonelyPsycho/pseuds/LonelyPsycho, https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsLadyNight/pseuds/MrsLadyNight
Summary: Yura decides to hitchhike to the sea. Otabek picks him up on the bike.





	1. The city named as a bird*

Oryol. The city of the First Salute. The third literary capital. The city of the youth and students. Turgenev's homeland, about which the numerous sculptures of Ivan Sergeyevich and what is named in his honor, don’t not forget to recall. That is, almost everything: streets, squares, museums, shopping centers and even the university “RSU named by I.S. Turgenev”. Only all the inhabitants of this bird city for some reason forget to say that Spasskoye-Lutovinovo, the famous estate of the writer, is located in Mtsensk (well, okay, even Oryol region). This is even more a remote place than provincial Oryol. But, oddly enough, the roads are better there. Yura was convinced of this on his own skin, getting on a ride with a talkative old man, who kindly had taken him a lift by the same, like himself, old-world “Goat”**. This in slang speech Russian jeepcaught every hole and bump, and Grandfather, circling the potholes on the fucking roads, managed to get into them with all four wheels. But fun. And firmly.

The nineteen-year-old Jura Plisetsky has only two passions in his life: travelling and literature. Although, maybe three. He also adores to win arguments. And this time all three elements have come together in one adventure - hitchhiking to the sea. From Moscow to ... the sea. It doesn't matter where he’ll be got there. Novorossiysk, Gelendzhik, Kabardinka – he doesn’t care.

It all started like an innocent chatter with Vit’ka about the fact that Yura just needed the sea sun, the beach, a cocktail and a couple of busty women nearby, or then, as you see, Plisetsky became too nervous. Even unshakable Vitya can no longer withstand this small cat's mouth, from which stinging insults are pouring out. Word for word, a bolt on the table, and Viktor Nikiforov utters the coveted phrase: "Yes, it will be weak to you!"

It would seem, where the literature is here? And just here the route to the sea with a stop at Tolstoy’s Yasnaya Polyana in Tula and Turgenev’s Spasskoe, to which Plisetsky, being a philologist to the bone, had been dreaming of somehow to go for a long time, has been drawn. And somehow nothing prevents to do it right now at all. Summer is long.

Yasnaya Polyana has appeared nothing like that, but a little disappointing. Yura was expecting ... he did not know what he had expected, but something different. Spasskoe was prettier, but Plisetsky got into the restoration period, and all sorts of beams and scaffolding spoiled the view. But the nature was amazing there, without exaggeration. Not surprisingly, Ivan Sergeevich was famous for the description of all these bushes, blades of grass and trees - there was something to describe.

The famous Turgenev’s oak was surrounded by a low black wrought-iron fence. And this became the second disappointment. But what about to hug the oak? To make a wish? Plisetsky wandered around, visited an excursion during which they were talkinh about the life of the writer in Spasskoe, wandered again, took some pictures, and when suddenly a wedding came to Spasskoe, he dumped under the guise.

By the next passing car, Jura got directly to Oryol, which also turned out to be not as charming as it seemed, although there were nice places in the city. Plisetsky visited the “Dvoryanka”, where there was a garden house and, all of this seemed to be also connected with Turgenev and his “Dvoryanskoe Nest”, walked along Alexander’s Bridge, from where another Turgenev’s garden house was visible. It became a little insulting for other writers, who had come from this city-bird. The` fucking amount of them, really, had visited it. Bunin, Andreev, Fet, Prishvin, Leskov .... But for some reason they were paid less attention to. Although in the square of the largest Oryol’s shopping center there were sculptures of all of them. Cool monuments. It was possible to sit on the bench, almost embracing Andreev and Bunin

To explore all of the important places, Jura has had one day enough: the city is small, from one end to the other it’ll take you a maximum of one hour to drive along a straight line by minibus. Minibuses, of course, they are a separate story. Such a mess Plisetsky did not have to see in his hometown, in the capital. There weren’t cultural queues at the entrance of the public transport, there wasn’t the slightest respect of the people to each other. Although someone once had already told Jura that people are evil in Oryol. Well, maybe not evil, but very gloomy.

Plisetsky heard the legend, that said, long before, in Oryol’s region convicts and hores had been exiled, that is why the most powerful men and the most beautiful girls live in this city. But this is not true. Girls like girls. Some are cute ones, any are not. But he wasn’t able to try to force with local men, thanks God.

Yura spent the night in the apartment, somewhere in the center, which was rented daily for ridiculous, according to Moscow standards money. The stop seemed to be called "Hotel Oryol".

Here in this part of the city it was beautiful. A well-kept park with a tank and the eternal fire, the hotel itself clearly attracted the attention, but the House of Books opposite it was generally above all praise. Both colors and busts of writers in the walls looked cool. Yura did pictures. However, there was no more sense to linger. And at seven in the morning, Plisetsky was standing at the stop “the TVcenter”, from where he was advised to catch a ride, as the route to the south started from this place.

It started drizzling a bit, the clouds overhead were thickening, and the wind was increasing. This summer was generally rainy and cool. Plisetsky shivered, hiding deeper in his leather jacket. All the cars foully flew past, what a fucking mess? Why none stopped? Here was inhospitable Oryol. Previously, the problems with catching a ride hadn’t been at all.

Another car swept by, Yura frowned. A crease appeared on the bridge of the nose. He was constantly told to stop wrinkling his face, otherwise an unattractive wrinkle would soon appear there, but the guy somehow didn’t care. Especially, now. The hands were frozen up, and he put them into the pockets of his jeans, sacrificing to the arm, sided apart? the gesture of any hitchhiker. A label, perhaps, to draw? Like, take me to Disney Land. Plisetsky grunted. What to do? He had been standing there for an hour like a moron, and nothing had changed. Soon he would want to eat, and he had only a bottle of water.

A black motorbike stopped nearby, Yamaha, it seemed. The biker in a leather jacket deftly jumped off it and began to examine his iron horse from all sides, without turning off the engine. Apparently, having made sure that everything was in order, he nodded, it seemed as if having been agreeing in something with himself. Then he opened the case and took from it the same black, shiny helmet that was on him. Without opening the visor, he stepped towards Yura and handed a spare helmet to him, practically kicking him in the chest.

\- Are you going or not? - The biker asked hoarsely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Oryol means "an Eagle" in Russian  
> ** in slang speech Russian jeep (UAZ)


	2. Yelets

Plisetsky did not doubt long. Riding a real motorcycle with a real biker was at least just awesome. And he especially had no choice. You never know, how much you’ll have to stay in a cold street, waiting for that car-driver, who’ll want to give him a lift.

The owner of Yamaha introduced himself as Otabek Altin and said that he was going to Voronezh to a biker rally. He gave the impression of an intelligent guy, who behind the wheel of an iron horse was clearly not the first day.

– And where are you going to? – He asked when Yura sat behind him.

– Farther, but to Voronezh is OK, – answered Yura, wondering where to put his hands. “Shall I hug him?’ – Aren't you afraid of me being a maniac? – He asked simply to delay a moment with a hug.

– What probability is it that two maniacs will be on the same bike on Oryol’s track at once? – answered Otabek hoarsely and very seriously. Was he joking? – You can put hands on the case, – he added, as if feeling that Plisetsky could not make up his hands. – Or on me. But with a case you will be comfortable. If you get used to it, you’ll be able not to put hands at all. Ready?

– And how long will it take us to go? – clarified Yura, to pull the time again.

– Five hours, maybe six, – Otabek shrugged. – But we'll stop quite often, – he added. – This iron beast is eating a lot, – he said somehow lovingly, and stroked his front wheel with his army boots . – So are you ready or not?

– Yes, come on, – Yura sighed, and hugged the biker at last, crossing his fingers into the lock on his belly.

They rushed forward with a disturbing roar, and Plisetsky never regretted that he had hugged Otabek. It was actually fucked up how scary. The first half an hour Yura clutched on the biker so much that if fear didn’t interfere with his thinking, he would be worried that he would break boy’s ribs. He saw neither Otabek’s relaxed driving a motorcycle, nor flashing buildings, nor oncoming cars, because he closed his eyes and hid behind Altin’s firm back. The back was not the widest male’s one, but Otabek was a bit larger than slim Jura. The skin from which his jacket was made was pleasant to touching. Delicious, some coniferous biker’s perfume unobtrusively made his way through the helmet to the nose. Yura took a deep breath, opened his eyes and timidly looked to the side, continuing to press his head against Otabek’s shoulder. In general, not so scary, is it?

Ten minutes later he was completely relaxed, and fear began to give way to delight. Cool, isn’t it! Plisetsky uncoupled his hands. With one he continued to hold on to Otabek's waist, and the other he threw up, feeling a whistling wind under his fingers. Cool. So, and if slightly to lean back? Will nothing happen? Nothing happened, it just became more convenient.

– Finally, – said the biker loudly, without looking around. – You almost let me out.

– Sorry, – muttered Yura, but the wind seemed to have stolen his words, and Otabek could hardly have heard them.

They overtook an ominous cloud that did not give Plisetsky peace. If it starts raining, they will be drenched from head to toe. Enough is not enough. But the cloud was left behind, as was the excitement of the unusual trip. Previously, Yura had not been able to ride a motorcycle at all. And as soon as the guy began to enjoy his sudden found adventure, Otabek turned to a gas station, somewhere near Livny.

– You can hang out there at the table for the time being, – said the biker, pointing to an ugly plastic structure, not far from garbage cans. – I need to call, to find out where the rest bikers are.

The rest ones? Well, yes, for sure he is not the only one going to this fest. Plisetsky trudged to the table, pulling the phone out of his leather pocket.

I hope that Beck, – as he called this biker to himself, – will allow me to take selfy on Yamaha. And Vitya will be greatly surprised. Well, in the meantime, you can take photos of the helmet.” Yura took selfy in the helmet. With a closed visor, an open visor. With the helmet in the hand, the helmet on the table. Away from it, hugging it. There sounded a significant cough from behind. Plisetsky turned around. Otabek stood with two cups of coffee and, finally, he was without a helmet. And he was ... cool.

– You are not Russian, – Yura said foolishly, realizing that, according to “Otabek Altin”, this could have been supposed beforehand.

– Kazakh, – the biker did not torture him. – Coffee? – He smiled with his eyes alone. – I did not know what you like, took latte, come down?

Plisetsky thanked him, put more hair on his face, as he always did when he was embarrassed, and took a sip of coffee.

– Fuck!

– Hot ... sorry, – Beck sighed, as if he was personally to blame for the fact that Yura, beeing a fool, had burned his tongue.

Yura rubbed his nose and threw a concerned glance at the biker from under his bangs. Those were cheekbones. And such eyes. He seemed like an Asian, and at the same time - not. A beautiful face. Sculpted like marble cut.

Otabek buried into his phone, deftly scribbling a message to someone. He had beautiful fingers like a musician. And black cropped gloves gave them a special rocker charm. Nails neat, as if he used to do a manicure. Nikiforov also did a manicure, believing that human hands should be well-groomed. Plisetsky unwittingly squinted his eyes at his own ones. Nails were gnawed, dirty. A pair of inflamed burrs. What a shame. Not to stare at Otabek, Yura also buried into his phone and began to study the map.

– Fuck, – he involuntarily burst out.

– Mmm? – the biker looked at him with almost black eyes being interested in.

– Throw me out in Yelets, okay?

Otabek's thick eyebrows moved to the bridge of his nose. The biker frowned, but nodded.

– No, – Yura guessed. – Everything is cool! I really like to go with you. I just remembered that Yelets is Prishvin’s hometown. And there is fun, – as evidence, he poked Otabek with a phone in his face, where there were photos of local beauties. – It would be foolish not to call on my part.

– So let's stop by, – Altin said hoarsely, – I’ll go with you to Yelets, and you’ll go with me to Voronezh.

– Um ...

– You said you’d go farther, – continued Otabek, as if nothing had happened. –And I'll go after the festival further too.

– Well ...

– Yes or no?

– Okay.

“This is the way to ask questions in the forehead. And the face looks like a brick, I can’t understand what he is thinking about,” – Yura silently said to himself, finishing his coffee. – “And yourself? What are you thinking with, agreeing to some kind of fest with some dubious guy. ”

And then Beka smiled, and completely ceased to seem doubtful. A cool dude.

***

The house where Prishvin lived was shabby and definitely needed a reconstruction. The paint peeled off, the foundation was skewed, there were some unpleasant stains on the walls. It seemed as if the art of local vandals was so carelessly daubed.

– Yeah, – muttered Yura, but did a photo.

He and Otabek quickly walked around the city, even called into Bunin’s Museum; and past the gymnasium in which the writer had studied, they swept over, looked at the churches. In general, a cozy town. True…

– It looks like Oryol, - Yura concluded when they were exploring the city from a certain hill.

– All provincial cities are alike, – Otabek summed up with a smart look.

Yura was still retelling to Altyn Prishvin's story “Kashcheev’s Chain”, calling the places associated with the author's autobiographical work, when they came to a local pizzeria. The cafe turned out to be cozy. The smell of pizza cramped a belly.

– I treat you, – said Plisetsky. – You're here because of me, so don't argue.

Otabek pondered, but apparently decided that it was fair, he nodded shortly and leaned back imposingly on the back of a comfortable red sofa.

– What pizza will we eat? – Yura asked, glaring from the sun that shone right in his left eye.

– I like it when meat is in meat, – said Otabek, again writing something into the phone. – But choose yourself.

– You are lovely, – Plisetsky smiled wickedly. – I like this too. And when you go with Vitya, then it begins ... fucking pineapple. He could also devour pizza with oranges!

– Who is Vitya? – suddenly Otabek put the phone aside and, folding his hands in the lock on the table, looked at Yura in a strange way. Like, I'm all about attention.

– My elder brother ... well, like a brother. A stepbrother, in general ...

They were disturbed by a waitress. However, the girl quickly took the order for a large meat pizza on thick dough and a teapot with green tea.

– In short, my mother and his father got married, – Yura finished the recently begun story. – Then divorced. But we somehow still communicate, like ... well, like brothers. Victor, well, he is an asshole, of course. Often. But cares about me. Occasionally. As long as he doesn’t have any garbage in his head. Do you have a family? Where are you from?

The last couple of years, Otabek lived in St. Petersburg, having moved from Almaty to help his parents with the business (they opened a branch in St. Petersburg). What that business was about, he didn’t tell, saying only that during these two years he was so fucked up that took an indefinite holiday, sat down on a bike and began to ride around Russia.

– I have already traveled Kazakhstan along and across. Now here. Thank you, – he said to the waitress, the appearance of who Yura did not even notice.

The pizza was placed in front of them, from one look at which they drooled, also a kettle and two mugs.

– Bon appetit, – she said, as if she wished it to Otabek alone. – If you need anything else, call me, – she smiled.

– Someone has a crush on you, – Yura snorted, dragging off a slice of pizza, not standing on a ceremony with knives and forks.

Otabek did not answer. He just smiled and followed Plisetsky’s example. They swallowed the first pieces, it seemed without chewing. Then they began to play in civilized people. They clinked mugs with tea, like, for an acquaintance, and so on.

– Damn, it has been still cool, – Yura relaxed completely and hatched out the window. – I’ll be able to write a course paper, probably after all ... Like, I don't know. Oryols’s writers through the eyes of Moskal!

– You are a philologist, aren’t you? – it sounded neutral, but Plisetsky still bristled.

Otabek looked at him questioningly. All his movements were so organic and economical. He spoke in short phrases, did not shake the air with unnecessary utterances or gestures. He looked independent and very brutal-cool. Yura was jealous. Nikiforov was always making fun of his youngest brother’s attempts to put on brutality. Cool wasn’t for Yura. He just occasionally made fucking things with or without.

– Well? – Plisetsky turned on his favorite attack mode. – Where are the jokes about McDuck?

– I’m sure you know them all without me, – Otabek chuckled. – Or is it necessary? – he thought picturesquely. – Sure I can, remember ... if necessary.

– Sorry. Just fucked. Although, I guess I’m struggling because I really don’t know what to do when I graduate from the university. Do not go to school.

– You will write a book, – said the biker, and it was not clear whether he was joking or not. - Hitch-hiking around Russia. Yuri ... what's your surname?

– Plisetsky. Like ballerina’s ...

– Well, look. Your last name is sonorous.

– Do you often catch fellow travelers? – Yura changed the theme. Well, hell with it, with the future.

– No. You're the first.

– Um ...

– I accidentally stopped near, – explained Altin, crumpling a napkin in his hands. – It seemed that the wheel was leading. And then I looked at you ... you had such a warlike look, and I thought that I could go with such a person. If something happens, he will bite off any enemy's head, – he laughed deafly.

– Well, well, that is not according to the principle of “sat – gave”, – Yura also laughed.

– I have a T-shirt with such an inscription. A friend gave. By the way, if you don’t need to go anywhere else, then it’s worth moving forward, otherwise we will fall behind the rest.

And within ten minutes they rushed forward.


	3. Voronezh

– This is JJ Style! – With wild cries on Otabek’s back jumped some jerk.

There was nothing left for arriving to Voronezh, and now they were at the next gas station, waiting for Altin's friends. In fact, Yura was already a bit tired of travelling, he already wanted to get to the place and just lie down somewhere. And he wanted to eat again, though the biker brought him more coffee and a chocolate. With nuts. His favorite one.

M-4 was a paid highway, which was good and bad at the same time. The road itself was cool. Half empty and smooth, only here there were traffic police’s posts at every step and before having picked up speed, you had to stand in a queue for payment. By the end of the path, Yura was so used to the bike and Beck that he did not hesitate to use Altin’s back as he liked: either lying on it, or napping. Either propping up with one hand, or with the other one. Such a comfortable dude, do not say anything.

As Otabek said, most of the people had already gathered. Four more bikers. The two also had passengers, the other two rode by themselves. Otabek introduced everyone to Plisetsky, he even mentioned which of them had come from, but Yura did not remember. The boys, like boys, but that one, hanging on Otabek, began to irritate immediately. He was smiling disgustingly. So Yura wanted to hit him in a pretty face.

– What princess is this, Becks? – the man, continuing to embrace Altin by the neck, unceremoniously stared at Yura.

He spoke Russian, but with strong accent. And he looked like Otabek. They were almost equally dressed, although all Altin’s friends were almost equally dressed: leather jackets, jeans, war shoos. But that guy had an undercat identical to Otabek. It suited Beck more. To Yura’s mind, of course. But Plisetsky was one of those who believed that there were his opinion and the wrong one.

– Hello, Jean, – Altin rolled his eyes and aggressively threw off the guy’s hand who was smiling in all thirty-two teeth. – This is Yura. I advise you not to call him a princess, otherwise you will learn a lot about yourself.

Otabek was right. Yura had already managed to throw a vicious look at him, clench his fists and prepare for an attack.

– So who is it? – “Jean” did not let up.

– A hitchhiker, – Otabek said simply. – Yura.

– Isn’t he too skinny for you? – the dude began to speak English. – I thought you liked a bit others.

– How is Isabella doing, Jean? – Altin also answered in English.

And Plisetsky pretended to understand nothing fucking. Because he really did understand nothing fucking. No, he knew English perfectly. But really, Beck ... What a fuck! Everything began to seem not so rosy as at first. More precisely, on the contrary. Everything became rainbowy. And that rainbow, it seemed, was of six colors.

– She's great, – the idiot replied. – She’ll arrive with Vasya (with Vas e iy ) by car.

Yes, Altin said that. He said that they would spend the night in tents. Yura suggested Altin should have an enchanted bag, like Hermione’s one, otherwise he could not understand where Becka would have stuffed the tent and all the other bells and whistles. Then it turned out that Vasya appeared still there. A dude with a car, with some jawing gum, with tents and other necessary crap.

– Your bride does not trust you so much that she is afraid of sitting on the bike with you? – grunted Otabek.

– Don't bang, Becks, it doesn’t suit you, – answered JJ Style. – She is an amazing girl, loving comfort. Like all awesome girls.

– And will you spend the night in a hotel? – Plisetsky could not stand it, unwittingly demonstrating his fluency in English.

– And you? Will you sleep near Beck’s side? I envy, it's warm and cozy there.

Yura broke out. He somehow no longer wanted to a bikers’ rally.

– Soon going? – Asked Plisetsky Otabek. – I would walk ...

– In fifteen minutes, – Altyn replied, and looked at him so plaintively.

Yura walked from the gas station in the direction of some kind of forest. Damn it.

What the fuck, Beck! We normally communicated.

Having reached the green edge, Plisetsky sat down on the grass and began to rummage in his rucksack, squinting against the sun. And he still thought something about the Beck’s bag, but there were lots in his own! There were quite a lot of things in a small-looking black one with rivets. A pair of T-shirts and shorts, sportshorts, a toothbrush, napkins, documents, some water, chargings for a phone and a reader, the reader itself, and even a razor. Everything was a thing to thing, as in Tetris. Otherwise they would not fit. Yura was looking for a pack of cigarettes. In general, he smoked extremely rarely, but sometimes he wanted to. Like then.

Lightening, Yura jerked – Otabek sat down next to him on the grass. Wow, how quietly he crept up. Plisetsky did not even notice. Altin silently stretched out his hand, and Yura put into his palm, covered with leather, a pack of sig and a lighter. A pair of drawing in cigarette smoke passed in silence.

– We have problems, haven’t we? – the biker blew smoke through his nose and deftly turned the cigarette in his fingers.

– I don't know, – Yura finally freaked out.

– Yura?

– Why didn't you say it right away? – Plisetsky bristled.

– Didn't say what? – snorted Altyn. – Hi, shall I ride you? But I am bisexual. Was it supposed to sound in such a way?

Yes, that would be stupid, of course.

– You ... I ... well ... we ...

– Well, I do not glue you! – Exclaimed Otabek emotionally. More precisely, for Otabek it was emotional. For JJ, for example, such an exclamation looked like a range of toothpicks. – I don't like blondes, okay? And skinny too. Here Leroy is right, – he sighed, having calmed down. – I just thought we were having a great time. For long trips a good companion is important. If you have problems with my sex life, which, in general, does not concern you, then all right. We’ll wait for Vasya, he will throw you to Voronezh, as you’ve planned.

– Sorry, – Plisetsky was really ashamed. He really did not care. – Just ... my brother. Victor ... he, too ... well ... In short, he’s falen in love with some kind of Jap. Became quite crazy, a moron piece. And ... generally, yes, I have problems with tolerance. All this ... I do not understand, in short.

– So, – the biker said hoarsely, getting to his feet, – it was nice to meet you, Yura. Let’s go, I will introduce you to Vasya. He is a normal guy, not a pervert.

His eyes of coffee-colored reflected almost nothing. Practically. But Altin could not but be hurt.

– Beka! – Yura shouted to the receding figure. – Sorry!

Otabek did not turn around and waved his hand. It was not clear whether that meant “go to the fuck” or “follow me”. Plisetsky hastily caught up with him and turned to face him.

– Well? – Altin said tiredly.

– I'll go with you, ok? – green eyes burned brightly. – Sorry for the stupid reaction.

– To Voronezh? – the expression on the face did not change. All the same difficult unreadable person.

– To the sea. Will you take me to the sea or not?

– Okay, – the biker snorted.

– And, Beka?

– What?

– Are you, well, really with this dude?

Otabek grimaced and clearly was not eager to respond.

– J.J. is my friend, – he said after all. – I don't know why ... He's a jerk. But we are friends. I met him when I was a teenager in Canada, when I studied there one year. We never slept with each other. Just a couple of teenagers’ kisses. Then I met Isabella. And then I returned to my homeland. Later he wrote that they were together.

– What did he forget in Russia?

– He studies the language. And he just likes it here. He likes to poke his nose in other’s affairs. He likes to say something awkward. Do not pay attention to him. He said what he said, only to make me cross.

– He annoys me!

– He infuriates everyone, - Otabek grinned. - This is JJ Style!

***

Honda's Leroy had a yellow sticker stuck on its ass: “Attention! Around ridiculous motorcyclists”. They had already been in traffic jam for about twenty minutes, and Yura, looking out from Otabek’s back, was tired of looking at that Canadian's ass. More precisely, at the ass of his "Honda". A crowd of cars seemed endless. Even bikers found it difficult to wade through discordant rows of iron. It was hellishly hot. Altin was nervous, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel.

– They say that if you stand in a traffic jam for which there are no visible reasons, it means that you are in Voronezh, – Leroy shouted with a clever air.

Otabek nodded, like, heard such a joke. He opened the visor.

– Have a drink? – he asked Yura, slightly pushing the bike forward. – I'll be boiled right now.

Plisetsky rummaged in a rucksack. Found a bottle. It was warm. Gave it to Beck, who thanked him, took a sip and grimaced. Sweat was running down his face. And he asked not to cuddle to the back. Too hot.

– Are we still far away? – Yura asked, hiding the water in the rucksack.

– No, not far away, but this does not mean that not too long, – Beck growled. – Need to pass through Voronezh. There,in its region, there is a children's camp. We’ll go there.

– To the camp?

– Oh, some air gap! – and Otabek rushed forward, maneuvering between cars. J.J. rushed after him.

There were several such congestions. Plisetsky, familiar with Moscow traffic jams, was not very surprised, but that did not mean that he was not tired of heat and sore muscles. Voronezh seemed funny purely overviewed. It was bigger and newer, or something. In comparison with provincial Oryol and Yelets it seemed generally a huge metropolis. In principle, the city of one million citizens. Such status obliged.

They got out of the annoying traffic jam on a middle-loaded central road. Suddenly Otabek instead of picking up speed, braked at the stop. What? Did he decide to go by trolley bus father?

– Two ice creams, – he asked through the window of the stall, driving up to it, as if in Mack’s auto. A saleswoman gave Yura two wafer cups. Altin quietly drove off to the side of the road. – They have wonderful ice cream, – he smiled, taking off his helmet. – Such one you’ll find nowhere else. It is purely local production.

He didn’t deceive. The ice cream was awesome, and in such heat it was unrealistic to the topic. It was a pity that Yura was unable to take it with him. Grandfather would like it. He always moaned to Yura that those days ice cream was not like that, but earlier, in his time ...

– Won’t we lag behind? – asked Yura, biting into ice cream with frenzy, looking at how familiar motorcycles were rushing past.

– Catch up.

And they caught up. And even overtook. When they roared past Canadian idiot, Yura could not resist. He turned and showed that fuck. However, for that he received the same gesture in response.


	4. It’s good you’ve come!

It was incredible, and there were no words. When they passed the entrance control and it turned out that Leroy had forgotten all his documents in St. Petersburg (Yura was laughing, no, practically grunting), Beka arrived at the parking lot ... with hundreds of motorcycles. They all stood in straight rows, beautiful and brilliant, completely different. Harley, Yamaha, Honda, Jixer. Sports ones and tour-enduro. The most modern ones and sophisticated ones and real rarities. Monochrome and creatively painted ones. Eyes ran around. One wanted to do photos and never stop. That Yura did, rushing among motorcycles, having forgotten about heat and fatigue, while Otabek was taking everything necessary from the case and for the last time convincing himself that his pedal horse stood firmly.

– Hey, Yura, hold on, please, – Beck asked and handed him a leather jacket.

Under the weight of which the guy almost broke. Fuck you! How much does this jacket weigh! Altin burst out laughing, so fervently. It was amazing that he could do that. He fixed something on his motorbike and took his own jacket.

– Come on? Or a photojournalist in you will not let go?

– Come on, – Yura nodded, flipping the camera at last.

They walked through the territory of the children's camp, going deeper and deeper. On the left one could see tents and a stage, on the right side there was a large pink building.

Looking back, Plisetsky thought that getting lost there it would be very easy. All enclosures scattered throughout the territory practically looking like a forest were identical in appearance. Just turn around and that was it. Fuck down. All landmarks had gone astray. Therefore, he tried to keep up with hard-breathing Altin.

The air smelt with grilled meat. From somewhere came low-pitched guitar music. Here and there, there were tents and organized fireplaces. The figure of Moron appeared. The Canadian had already been jumping around some pretty girl and waving his arms. Apparently, that was Isabella. Pretty, true, but her face was as arrogant as fucked up. She and Moron suited perfectly for each other.

Next to JJ there were people already familiar to Plisetsky. Unstuck Vasya, the one that was in the car, and some gloomy guys who were hanging out with them at the last gas station, whose names Yura had ignored.

They found a completely vacant place, next to a wooden unpainted garden house , very old, even ancient. But they had a table and benches. On the other side of the garden house, another company had already sat, but those guys turned out to be friendly and from Voronezh. They kindly asked how the road had been, neighing over the traffic jam and said “yes”. They had some kind of helly traffic jams. Which were causeless.

Vasya had already been wizzing over the grill, Leroy was tormenting with a tent. Isabella was sitting on the bench, having put her leg on the other one, having folded arms in the lock, and doing nothing. The rest ones also were setting up tents and lying out things.

Otabek tossed the bag on the grass, then lost in thought, took off his T-shirt, showing off his perfectly tanned swarthy body. Then he rummaged in his rucksack, pulled out shorts and beach shoes. He took off his war boots, his jeans and put on shorts with a deadpan look. However, Yura had never watched Otabec’s outraged look.

– I advise you to change your clothes as well; – he threw to Plisetsky, carefully folding his own things into a rucksack. – And more quickly, we need to put up a tent before I am pissed as o log.

Wow. Here is a plan.

Yura wanted to change clothes, yes. His sweat-soaked clothes stuck to the body. Light sport shorts and a clean T-shirt attracted, but Plisetsky could not undress so calmly with a crowd of people around him. Firstly, he was not used to it. Secondly, after Otabek had shone with his ideal reliefs, it was somehow embarrassing to demonstrate Yura’s protruding bones covered with pale skin.

Still, Yura was not going to show his weakness. Moving away a little farther, he began to undress. Altin didn’t even look in his direction, he was enthusiastically disassembling pegs for the tent, but Moron did not take his eyes off. Well, Hell with him. Let him stare until his eyes flow out, fuck! Having dressed in gray sweatpants that barely rested on the pelvic bones and a black t-shirt with a tiger's muzzle, Yura folded his things and came back.

– Beka, how can I help? – He asked, pointedly ignoring Moron’s whistles.

– Nothing so far. Mix me whiskey with cola, can you? They are in that package.

And Yura began to pour some alcohol, because everyone else also needed it. He did not cheat himself. Not that he drank often, only with Victor. And it always ended with some kind of epic, because Nikiforov did not know the measure. With nothing.

When the drinks poured into beer plastic cups were ready in accordance with the preferences of each person, everyone threw away their business and pulled themselves to the table.

– Well, cheer up! – Someone said, and everyone clinked together.

– Now I need you, – Beck whispered almost into Plisetsky’s ear. – You need to hold a big end.

– What?

Altin pointed to the “big end” of the cover from the tent.

– Hold it higher and keep it until I pull it, – he explained.

Lerow was neighing. Yura was blushing for some reason. Otabek did not seem to notice how his utterances sound in two ways.

***

Drinking whiskey with beer was a bad idea. Not having waited for a snack was a bad idea. Having sat in front of woozy Altin was the worst idea. So as to grab his shaved head, trying to stop the world spinning, trying not to just get off the bench. Another fucking idea was to stick on his chiseled face, because everything was blurring. To focus on the eyes that were burning with hopeless darkness was generally a shit idea. But the highest degree of fucking doing was to pull him and to suck. How it had happened, Plisetsky did not know. In principle, he could not know. He had been disconnected from reality two more beer before.

– Oh, it’s started, – someone said while Yura was dissolving in new sensations.

Well, new? Really? Basically, to kiss a guy looked like kissing a girl, just a guy. Even a shaved, cool for touching nape was not any novelty. Yura once met a girl who also had such an undercard. Only she had no stubble. But everything else was the same.

Then Plisetsky’s only one percent of brain worked, and he did not even think that kissing a man when you yourself were a man in such a concentration of testosterone and brutality was at least silly. As maximum it was inadequate, considering how negatively he was towards gays and what scene he had arranged to Otabek.

But kissing was cool. He wanted it, and that was it. He was not obliged to explain it to anyone.

Beka pulled away the first. Embarrassed or dumbfounded he did not look. Neither did Yura. They sucked, well, okay. Not great trouble. Everybody around reacted also somehow neutral, except that Moron was overly pleased, as if Plisetsky had shoved the tongue into his mouth a moment before.

– Shall I pour to this table no more? – asked Beck.

– Well, pour!

Well, he poured.

Then they went for a walk with the most part of their company. Firstly, they wanted to look at everything that was selling there, except beer. Secondly, the cover bands had already been playing on the stage; it was worth listening to them. Ahead a costume contest was waiting for them, however, none of “their own company” took part in it, but the “left” ones were quite enough. Biker-men and biker-girls in suits of doctors and nurses, being dirty with fake blood, all sorts of geeks and freaks, zombies and vampires. Almost Halloween. One of the motorcycles, standing at the entrance to the improvised rave zone, was decorated under a gynecological chair. The spectacle was fucking dumb. Plisetsky even slightly sobered up. Above the “entrance” a banner hung: “IT'S GOOD YOU’VE COME!” Yes, true. It was great.

Then something went wrong. There they seemed to be all together in front of the stage; shouting "Ve ve Leningrad es pe pe point ru" with a full throat, and then Yura turned around and did not see any familiar faces.

– Beka! – Yura plaintively called, twisting, which was also rash. – B-e-e-k-a! Otabek! Altin, damn it! – He cried in despair, but he was not answered.

Plisetsky trudged along the stalls littered with cool T-shirts, sweatshirts, stickers, key rings and magnets. He was attracted by the feast logo stickers. He wanted to buy them, but the money had remained in the jacket. A jacket was in the tent. And in which side was the tent – he had no idea.

Then everything mixed up in some kind of mess. Some people, different people, communicated with him. And with whom he would not speak, in his hands always appeared a glass with some alcohol. Different alcohol. That was with some wine, the other was with some beer, the next one was with some kind of anisic shit. Plisetsky understood that he simply had no place to drink. But for some reason he drank anyway. He answered something to someone. He laughed, joked. And barely kept on his feet. It seemed he kissed someone else again. And in the sex of that someone he doubted. Then someone bought him that ill-fated sticker, and Yura trudged around to look for their with Beck tent, feeling that he was about to die.

They were all the same! All tents, all corps, all those people! How many circles Plisetsky wound around the camp, he did not know. In the end, he was exhausted and sat on the stump. He began to vomit. His eyes refused to look at. It seemed that someone had turned on a “vignette” effect. Yura saw the whole world around in a small square, and around it there was blackness. He vomited and vomited, really, seriously thinking that he was going to die. Without any exaggeration. Death did not seem terrible. He just wanted it to end. But it did not end.

Some people came up to him, trying to help, but he was fucking them, yelling that no one would touch him. Nearby they put a bottle of water and advised him to drink it. Having answered “fuck from me” once more, Plisetsky took his head with his hands, and the speaker left. Then Yura found some strength to open the water. He drank and barfed. And again, and again. Suddenly he felt better. He got up. He looked around, and it dawned on him that he was not far from their garden houses.

On the wadded feet, Jura reached the tent. Being sober he took off fucking leopard high sneakers very hard, but being drunk… he somehow masterly threw them off at the entrance. Beka was in the tent. Thank God!

Fuck!

Without saying anything, Yura collapsed nearby. Otabek opened one eye and said nothing, just put a sweatshirt under Plisetsky’s head and turned away.

It’s good you’ve come!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is based on real events. Everything happened so. And it was tin. I don't do that anymore. Fair. And you do not. Never ever!


	5. Rostov-on-Don

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *crapulence

Probably, badun* after drunkenness was invented so that during the agony of headache and nausea there would be no strength and desire for shame. Plisetsky woke up because there was absolutely nothing to breathe in the tent, the sun was shining from all the cracks, heating up the air. A tent is generally a universal thing in terms of comfort. To fall asleep is cold, to wake up is hot. All is thought out.

Yura fumbled with his hand and found his phone to see what time it was at all. But the phone was dead. Otabek seemed to be in such condition too. He slept on his stomach, hiding his head with his hands from the sun's rays, which penetrated from a small mesh window at the top of the tent. He looked so-so. As if he were not sleeping, but had fallen into a coma.

Plisetsky pulled the slider down, opening the "door". In the face hit pleasant coolness. Actually it was not hot. Anyway, in the street. The guy somehow went out in the "waiting room" and sat down with his fifth point on the ground. He looked at his sneakers, and he was amazed again that he had managed to take them off, considering his condition...

Now it was not very much better. Yura tried not to even think about how he looked, but he still presented a swollen face, eyes-chinks, which must have become narrower than Beck's ones and tangled hair. He ran his hand into the tangled strands. For sure. The nest. It remained to hope that rooks had not yet settled there.

Plisetsky somehow put the sneakers on and went to look for at least some source of water. Some kind person, met on the way, advised to go into the first available building, there, they said, there were toilets, and sinks, and mirrors. With the last thing Yura wanted to contact least of all, but he had to. Having washed with icy water, Yura nevertheless raised his eyes and stared at his reflection: picturesquely, everything was as he had supposed. Only the eyes, besides being narrow, were also red. And on all cheeks there were scarlet spots.

Yura brushed his teeth. Then again. It didn’t become better. An unpleasant taste still remained in the mouth. And he also wanted to vomit. But the stomach was empty. He got rid of its contents yesterday. Damn. The pictures of the previous night began to pop up in his head. One by one. Each subsequent memory only made it worse. And then the muddy consciousness got to the most forbidden one. Yesterday he ... KISSED OTABECK. Well, fucking mother!

Having heaped a little more at the mirror, combed his hair and washed himself again, Yura crawled out of the building. There were practically no people. Judging by that, but also by pleasant freshness in the air, it was very, very early. And it would be better for him to sleep more. To drink some water, and to sleep a couple more hours. Then it would be better.  
Their neighbors from Voronezh had already woken up. They were sitting in the garden house at the table and drinking tea. They greeted Yura, looked at him sympathetically. They offered some tea. Plisetsky did not refuse. Tea was what the doctor himself had prescribed. They said little, and if they did it, then in a whisper.

In general, yesterday Yura noticed that bikers, contrary to stereotypes, were pretty cute. Around there were no fights, no battles. (Maybe the reason for that was in strange beer. Surely, with dimedrol, so as not to brawl. How else could it be explained that everyone had been covered so much that they were confused and had been looking for each other for half a night?) Everyone was polite, funny, sociable. Look, they gave him a sticker. Fuck! Plisetsky fumbled in his pockets. There was no sticker. Apparently, yesterday, he successfully fucked it. Well, how so, damn it?

– Go and sleep a bit more, – one of the guys advised him. – It's six in the morning. Your friends will wake up not soon. They need to sleep well before the trip.

The fact that Beka would drive the bike after such a night was scary to Yura. For some reason, yesterday it was not scary. Yesterday, he did not think at all what to say then.

It was difficult to take off the sneakers, harder than at night. And while he was messing around the tent, Otabek came out. He was sleepy and a little crazy, but overall he looked pretty good. Not as disastrous as Yura did, anyway.

– What, shall we get up? – Asked Plisetsky in horror.

– No, sleep, – Beck replied hoarsely. – I’ll be back fast.

Otabek really quickly came back. He did not close “Door’. He found a bottle of cold mineral water. What a clever guy!

– Damn, this is fucking, – Yura remarked after having poured half of a one and a half liter bottle into himself. – Fuck, why have I done it ... A hundred times I promised not to mix alcohol! I run on Vit’ka, and myself ... – he lamented.

– As a child, Lesha dreamed of becoming an astronaut, Vanya – an athlete, and Seryozha – an alcoholic. As a result, the first two have drunk out themselves, and the third has done it, – said Otabek, it was not clear to what he’s done it.

– What? – Yura narrowed his eyes.

– This is to what that you need to set goals correctly, – Beck laughed. – Well, I deliberately wanted to get drunk in the drool. It was necessary for me. You were not. We were both in such a condition, but you were by chance, and I have achieved the desire. Therefore, I am satisfied with the result, but you are not.

– Oh, fucking you, philosopher, and damn! – Yura turned away from Beck and closed his eyes.

Otabek hoarsely laughed, but he seemed to return to Morpheus’s embraces too.

“J.J. Style” woke them up already for dinner. It became much better. And the appetite woke up. The remnants of yesterday's meat, some bread-and-butter and other food were eaten up. Plisetsky also hung over with a can of beer, under the envious glances of the other drivers. After the beer it got generally excellent. As if that were not fucking. Victor said that after twenty-five so easily hangover did not pass.

And then they packed up and left. Somehow quickly and sharply. True, when they were saying goodbye, Leroy kept on rushing with them to Rostov-on-Don, but Otabek rudely turned him off. What a clever boy!

***

From Voronezh to Rostov-on-Don it was about the same time as from Oryel to Voronezh. It was true, that time Beck was driving as if insane, and the reason for that it was raining cats and dogs that caught them two and a half hours later in the canteen for truckers, where Altin came in for some soup.

– I just need to eat something liquid, – he said, and Yura shrugged. If it was necessary, then it was necessary.

That was a pretty good canteen: clean and relatively inexpensive, and most importantly, it was possible to charge a phone and to connect to Wi-Fi, which Plisetsky did first, waiting for his hodgepodge to cool down. Beck took some chicken noodles and hung up into the phone too.

As soon as the phone went on, Vitya’s angry messages fell on Yura. They began with a relatively neutral "where are you, Yurochka" and ended with a tirade that if something happened to Plisetsky and he was dead, then Vitya would revive him and then strangle him. If he were alive and well and just ignored it, then he would be fucked.

When Yura wrote: “I am alive. The phone was dead,” – Nikiforov immediately answered obscene. In ten minutes he cooled down. Yura send him some photos from the fest. Vitya was impressed. Leafing through the pictures Plisetsky gasped. Someone took a photo with his and Beca’s kiss! Of course, Yura guessed who that was, Canadian jerk, not otherwise.

Plisetsky glanced at Otabek, but that did not notice him. He was intently eating his noodles and looked into his phone. Yura brought closer the photo. Well, they both looked happy! The first desire was to remove the dirt, but then he decided to leave it. If Vitya again started accusing him of homophobia, he would show him a photo. Or not.

– I’ve found a hostel for us, – Altin suddenly started talking and showed Yura photos. Not bad. Rather pretty. – Double room with different beds. Shower on the floor. You can book another one with private facilities in the room. But it is more expensive.

– We won’t overpay. Come down.

– This hostel is still expensive, but it is near the waterfront, in the center. You can certainly find cheaper. Somewhere at the devil’s place. But we are there just for a while, and all the interesting stuff usually happens in the center.

– I agree.

And then suddenly a thunderstorm began.

They honestly even tried to wait, but the Internet promised that it would be raining for almost a day. Otabek shoved Yura into some water-repellent trousers, five sizes larger than himself. And he put on the similar. They were made of thin material, like the one from which the tents were made. The leather jackets did not seem to get wet. Neither did the helmets, so the only things that got wet through were Yura’s rag sneakers.

The crappy thing when you raced on a motorcycle when it was raining was not bad visibility or a slippery road, as it might have seemed at first glance. The crappy thing was when the oncoming truck dusted you from head to toe. The rumbling hands were also dubious pleasure, however, Yura, without having asked, thrust his numbed ones under Beck’s jacket. When they were going to Voronezh, and Yura glanced at the speedometer, then one hundred and twenty, one hundred and thirty per hour frightened him. Then, at one hundred and sixty, he wanted to say: “Beck, damn, why are you slowing down, speed two hundred!” Just really he wanted to warm and wash.

According to the time, they arrived faster than last time. According to feelings, the road was endless. When they came into the hostel, neither one nor the other had strength. They quickly paid off with the administrator. She, smiling radiantly, escorted them to the room, wondering whether the guys liked it. They liked it. They liked everything. Give us a shower and sleep.

The girl seems to be trying to flirt with Otabek. All the girls he met tried to flirt with him. All the cashiers, even Isabella did so. Altin was a sex magnet, – Yura decided, but did not voice it. Otabek might think of something extra.

There were several showers on the floor, so they went to wash at the same time. The magic pants did not really let the water through, so Plisetsky was almost dry, only the sneakers with the socks were squeezed out. Because of moisture, his hair fell out and looked like a mane, Beck called him a lion cub. In the hostel for an additional fee you could use the washing machine. They did it.

When it was finished with the shower and clothes, Yura, without hesitation, fell on a single wooden bed, but Altin made him drink hot tea, which he dragged from the common kitchen. After tea, he also collapsed to sleep.

They woke up at night, and it did not stop raining. They couldn’t walk, although none of them would have refused to look at the night city. Yura’s throat was sore and his nose was about to run. Constantly he wanted to sneeze.

– I'll go to the store, – announced Otabek when they lowered a little. – I’ve googled, there is a round-the-clock shop near here.

– What for? – Yura stretched muscles and yawned.

– Well, it’s necessary to devour something. And for you I’ll buy some medicine. Otherwise you will get sick. How can I take you farther?

– Well, I don't ...

But Altin has already decided everything. He quickly packed up and left. Plisetsky went into the phone. He spoke with Victor, laid out a couple of good pictures. Once again, he looked at the one where he and Beck had been epically sucking. None of them mentioned that fact in any conversation. Between them, nothing had changed. Was it likely Altin did not remember that at all?

Otabek didn’t return long, because of nothing to do Plisetsky began to read "The Quiet Don." Well, since they were at the Don. Then he received a message from Altin in direct of Instagram, who he’d managed to find there and mark in some pictures: “Supper’s served. Come eating, please." Yura chuckled. What a housewife. Wow.

Pasta with meat in a naval style, a salad of cucumbers and tomatoes and Teraflu were waiting for him. A champion's dinner.

– Well ... you're fast, – said Yura. – Damn ... tasty.

Besides them, another couple of visitors didn’t sleep. They were sitting on the couch, not far from the kitchen, and were looking into the laptop. Yura thought that since they had nothing to do either, and they didn’t want to sleep at all, they could also download some movie from the phone. Beck agreed. Yeah, you could.

They did not take into account that Wi-Fi, when it was shared, lagged notably. "Kingsman" wasn’t shown well, hung, and then completely refused to boot. Plisetsky returned to “The Quiet Don”. Otabek again buried into his phone, having stayed on Yura’s bed. Turning the page, Yura loked at Altin’s screen. Otabek flipped through Tinder, idly brushing pictures and occasionally put likes to someone. Then he turned the app and opened the Hornet. Conveniently, when you didn’t not bother. Chicks were not logged, let's look at the boys.

– You’ll become oblique, – he grunted.

¬¬– Has my company been bored? – roared Yura.

Altin looked at him questioningly, like,”are you an idiot?”. Yura felt like an idiot. It was clear that Beck was not looking for the company. And that was fine. Yura should be happy that he was looking for that on the side, and not with Plisetsky. But Yura was not happy. Then he said something quite moronic:

– We’ve kissed, Beck.

– I know. I was there too, – he calmly replied, without changing his face.

– Why didn't we talk about this? – Yura slammed the cover of his reader.

– Do you want to repeat?

– No.

– Do you want this to never happen again?

– I do not know! No. I do not know!

– Then what to talk about?

– But you can’t pretend that it wasn’t! – Yura’s got boiled. Fuck, he is so calm, asshole! What the fuck is he ... so.

– Has anybody told you that you read too much, Yura? – Beck said lightly. – Only in novels you need to talk about everything. I think that if there is nothing to say, then you should not shake the air without a reason.

– That is, you have nothing to say?

– And you?

– I was the first to have asked!

Altin grunted and looked at him like at a little child.  
– It’s stopped raining, – Beck announced, glancing out the window. – Let's go for a walk?

– Okay, – Plisetsky surrendered.


	6. Toilet in Gazetny Lane

The sneakers were not dry, and the jacket was still wet, but this did not bother Yura. It was cool and chilly in the street, but it smelt so pleasantly fresh and wet asphalt, as it happened every time after summer rain that other uncomfortable sensations faded into the background.

They walked along the promenade, where you could afford only a walk. Transport must not come there. The embankment was beautiful and almost empty. The Don hit with its spaces. Then they returned to the bike and, having crossed a huge, nice bridge to the other bank, parked near the water. The dawn was beginning.

Yura sat down with his legs on the bike, after having asked whether it was possible to sit in Turkish, to which Otabek snickered, having said that Plisetsky would scrub the seat with his own toothbrush, but allowed it. They both stared at the sky. Then Altin suddenly took out the phone and shot Yura. Then once more. Plisetsky began to pose and ape. Otabek took pictures of him from all sides. Looking through the pictures, Yura happily thought that, it seemed, he had a new avatar. It remained to choose the best, because almost all of the pictures turned out successful.

Altin sat down next to him, slightly having backed the motorcycle with his own back. He turned his head to Yura and shook bangs. He looked at the guy very strangely, very strangely.

– Now he’ll kiss me, – thought Yura, himself, not knowing whether he was glad or not.

But Otabek did not kiss, just continued to look at him with his amazing black eyes.

– Do you like me? – asked Yura.

– Yes, you are charming, – Beck replied, without thinking.

– Have you fallen in love?

– No.

– And then what?

– Enchanted, – he smiled.

– Is there any difference? – Plisetsky could no longer withstand that complex look and turned away, having thrown more hair on his face.

– Of course. It takes time to fall in love. You can be fascinated immediately.

– Scientists believe that you can fall in love in seven seconds.

– I told you that you read too much, Yura? – Beck laughed hoarsely.

They were silent. The sun has almost awoken from its sleep. The Dawn on the Don. Romantic.

– Will we leave today? – Plisetsky broke the silence.

– Are you in a hurry?

– No.

– Then I offer to stay for one night more. The city is big, beautiful, there is something to see. And ... my acquaintances here call me to the club to play. Tonight.

– Do you have friends all over the world? – Yura was surprised. – To play? D J, or what?

– Something like that. So what?

– I do not like clubs. There is poor lighting and loud music, – he added to Altin’s mute question. – It’s uncomfortable to read. – The biker laughed. – But you go. I will find something to do.

– Are you sure?

– If I were not sure, I wouldn't say it, – Plisetsky snorted.

– Oh really? – Beck quipped.

Here was an asshole! Plisetsky got angry. Also, the clever one was found. Yura was about to give something nasty and offensive, but when he turned and opened his mouth, Otabek’s face turned out to be indecently close. It was so beautiful in that romantic dawn. And, so mocking. You knew everything, Beka. Yura grabbed Altin's leather jacket and pulled him closer. Then, kissed. Already the alcohol would not be justified. Well, Hell with him.

– You’re kissing cool, – Plisetsky gasped to his lips. – I'm going crazy.

– Do you like me? Have you fallen in love? – Altin was scoffing, smirking smugly.

– You’re an asshole.

The asshole burst out laughing. Then they did not long ride around the city, bought some coffee, hanged by fountains, returned to the hostel, ate pasta and went to bed. At lunch, they planned a more extensive tour around the city. They did not discuss anything. Plisetsky still did not know what to say and how to explain all that, so he became smarter. There was no need to shake air.

– This is really a toilet! – wondered Otabek, looking at the unsightly blue door. – Well ... I mean ... a toilet. Where…

– That's the whole point.

They stood right at the entrance to the city Toilet in Gazetny Lane, one of the main literary landmarks of Rostov-on-Don.

– But you said that poets were reading poems there, - Otabek still wondered, not understanding at all why they’d dragged there, why that place was the first from Plisetsky’s “must-see” list and why he was so entranced by taking that damn shabby door.

– It’s a pity that we can’t go inside anymore, – said Yura, really upset. – During the war, it was visited even by Churchill's wife.

– In Moscow and St. Petersburg, there are also probably lots of toilets, where famous people defecate, – Beck snorted, fiddling with his helmet. – Why, then…

– Previously, non-conformist artists had held exhibitions here, - Yura tried to explain. – Right in the toilet, yes. It was something new, unusual. I will throw off the video to you later, you will understand*. – He finally waved with his hand. – It’s just ... a fucking blatant bohemian place where the café “Poets’ cellar” used to be. Khlebnikov read his poetry there.

– Who? – Altin frowned.

– Velimir Khlebnikov, one of the representatives of futurism, – Yura explained, irritably pulling his shoulder. – You, young people, except Pushkin today have not heard other poets, have you?

– Well, quite the reverse, – Altin quipped, – we also know Lermontov and Mayakovsky, old man.

Yura chuckled. Then he recited:

Evening. Shadows.

Inner porch. Laziness.

We were sitting.

Evening’s drunk.

In each eye - a running deer,

In each gaze - a flying spear.

And when Universe's boiling at sunset,

A little boy flew out of the stall,

Accompanied by the exclamation: "Peg in!"

And rather on the right than being right,

I was more a word than on the left.

Having heard the words "Peg in!" Otabek inspired. However, reading of a little popular poet’s poems impressed him in any case, although he seemed not to be inspired by the words that were worth it. Only "Peg in".

– Maybe I'll peg him in, – decided Yura. – Who knows…

– Do you know many poems by heart? – grumbled Altin, when Plisetsky finished enjoying the views of the toilet.

– It depends on who to compare with, – he shrugged. – If with you, then – yes. Lots. And if with my teacher on antic literature then there is a drop in the ocean. She, count, knows by heart all Shakespeare’s sonnets! Do you know, who Shakespeare is, I hope? – Yura frowned, clearly digging.

– Oh, shut up, smart guy! Where to go father?

– To Bolshaya Sadovaya Street, we are looking at Margarita Chernova’s house, – Plisetsky said chattering, checking his list on the phone, – then Paramonov’s warehouses, a fountain at Teatralnaya Square and ... what? – Yura was surprised, raising up his burning eyes.

– You're charming, – Otabek concluded. – You would see yourself from the side ...

– Have you fallen in love yet?

Altin rolled his eyes, then, hid behind his sunglasses, which he pulled off the top of his head. Not that it’d got much brighter. The glasses suits him. Brutal, damn it.

***

If the day belonged to Yura, and they went to all the places where he was rushing to, then the night belonged to Altin. The young philologist decided that it would be fair if he went to the club with Beca, since he so patiently had agreed to all his literary excursions. Although while they were sitting in a cafe where Otabek was eating another plate of chicken noodles, Plisetsky still doubted the correctness of that idea.

– I don’t even have anything to wear, – he whimpered as he was chewing pizza. He could not refuse fast food. – What do people wear to dances?

– To dances, – Beck smirked. – Jeans flared, leggings, wide headbands, what else did they wear in the eighties? – He wondered theatrically. – You’ve brought this word from the eighties, haven’t you?

– Beka?

– What?

– Fuck in that.

– I recognize the influence of great masters of a pen.

Yura threw a napkin at him. Look, look! How he’s got alive. He even stopped portraying the unemotional something. He’s smiling, what a beautiful bastard.

– I also travel without a lot of clothes, Yura, – the handsome bastard became serious, masterfully having caught a ball from the napkin. – We’ll buy something.

– What do you mean? And where will we get this, something? I am not such a major to buy clothes for the evening. And then where are they going to?

– Then I’ll leave them with Milka, she’ll soon go to St. Petersburg and deliver them to me, – Otabek shrugged. – I'll send them to you. Or you’ll come to visit me and, take them. In St. Petersburg, you know, there is something to see too.

– Who is Milka and ... have you just invited me to visit you?

Milka turned out to be the former lover, with whom Altin communicated, because that was Altin, doing so with the whole world and all the women, because he was cool, fucking and blah blah blah. And yes, he called Yura to visit him. Why not? They were friends. Friends did that, they visited each other.

Yura did not specify when they managed to raise the status from a fellow traveler to a friend, and where it was written that you could shove tongues in each other’s mouths being drunk or without it simply because, well, the dawn was so beautiful, the biker was so beautiful, the tongues were to put nowhere.

In the end, they went to the mall. In general, Plisetsky had money in order to make it fly from time to time.

They were not hard earned, they were thrown to him by Vitya, just like that, because he had it, and he did not feel greedy for his youngest little asshole brother. But Yura really was not a major. He didn’t like branded clothes, expensive technology or similar fashion trends. He was one of those who did not care in what state his leopard sneakers were when they were walking through Paris. And Paris was expensive. Any travelling, though the most thoughtful and budget one, still cost a pretty penny. Therefore, he preferred not to be a major, because today Nikiforov was kind, and tomorrow he could send him away with the words "Go and work, little brother."

– No, – said Yura, when Beka pointed to leopard leggings. – No, – to leather ones, too. – Well, are you kidding me? What kind of bullshit is that in the style of Beetle Juse?

– It would be nice on you, – Otabek said carelessly, passing, at last, a female section. – Okay, let’s look for something for real guys, shall we?

– If I’ve sucked you a couple of times, it hasn't make me a chick! – Plisetsky shouted out around the whole store.

Damn it! It seemed, everyone turned to him. Even mannequins did so. Otabek was neighing like a horse when Yura was scooping around, only his heels were shining.

The next store, which Yura finally agreed to enter, was on the floor above. There, his cries about how he “has sucked Otabek a couple of times,” should not have been heard. He was cross o lot, but Beck’s jokes, which were coming every second into his ear, like, “not a gay, once, oh, and you have already done it more than once” or “didn’t finish, didn’t count, or you’d finished?” didn’t make the situation easier.

Plisetsky himself was well aware that something was going wrong, and that he too often for being a homophobia’s man stuck on a guy and kissed him. Maybe, the club was a bad idea. And in general, to go somewhere else with Altin was a bad idea. Although, was he somehow to blame? He just did not do anything. He just walked out with a pompous, contented look, as if everything had already been decided, and he would get something. Sheet. Bitch! Why is he such a fucking nerd! Fucking feelings.

While Otabek was trying on black ripped jeans, which, according to Yura, were no different from those that were on the biker right then, Plisetsky asked Victor how he’d realized that he was a gay.

– My dick got up to a man, – Nikiforov simply replied.

Logically, fucking. Yura’s one didn’t seem to get up yet, but he wanted to kiss that one-that-ass-one-in-those-trousers.

– Normally? – asked Beck, turning round in the fitting room. – I see that they suit me. I take them, – and he closed the curtain.

Plisetsky swallowed. You're in trouble, Yura. Grandfather told you: “Yurochka, get rid of this hitchhiking, you never know what a pervert you’ll meet.” Yurochka replied that it was he whom the perverts needed to be afraid of. And he was right. Fear, Kazakh. Fuck you.

But the Kazakh, it seemed, was not afraid of anything. He had a creeping line on his forehead: "I’ll give a shit about everything," which Yura wanted to erase. Or leave. That poke suited fucking. And even that devil would infuriate and dismay Yura. He was generally confused. In himself, in Beck, who did not do anything at all. He didn’t let his hands go, almost didn’t flirt, he just joked, and only that. Why? Maybe, he didn’t like Yura? He clearly said, that skinny blond ones were not his type. No, but then he said that he liked Yura ... And how did Plisetsky with this thought, okay? No. Badly? Neither. But that was is not anyway.

Yura finally missed while they were driving to the club. He was literally irritated by everything, and most of all that he was being driven by himself. Suddenly, Otabek braked at a supermarket “Pyaterochka”, having abandoned that he was "five seconds", and disappeared behind the green automatic doors. And when he returned, he stuck on Plisetsky’s helmet the sign “Caution! High voltage".

– You are a non-Russian fucked face, – growled Yura. – Have you stopped for that, damned sheet?

Otabek opened the visor on Jura's helmet, clicked him on the nose, closed the visor and rushed on father.

Moron. Idiot. Moron. Degenerate. Asshole! I want you. I want you, mother fucking!

At the entrance of the club, Yura decided that he had got excited. He didn’t want anything with that amazingly awesome asshole.

The awesomely cool asshole sat Plisetsky down at the VIP table and got ready to prepare for his show. Yura shrugged. In those clothes he felt uncomfortable. He felt naked in a tattered, bare back t-shirt and leather (Beka’d persuaded to buy) pants. Having cackled and popped his shoulder blades, Yura put the leather jacket back on and looked around. Well, the club was like a club. There was a dance floor, and also ther was a bar. People, waiters. Everything was blinking, chicks were jerking, boys were drinking. He stared at the wine list. Shall he drink too?

While he was waiting for his tequila, two nice young ladies sat at his table, asked if he was Yura. They were “with Altin”. "No. This is me who’s with Altin,” - he thought. - "And you’re come women". But that, of course, he did not say, just smiled like a moron.

\- Liza, – one appeared to be, shouting over music.

\- What?

\- Nothing, nice to meet you, I say.

Another one was called Sveta. The star of immunity. Bitches. Sexy dark haired bitches. Not skinny. Not greasy. The best. They were similar to Isabella, but without a haughty facial expression. Why were they called by that moron? For fucking? With both? Or one for Jura? And how will they do? Together? Or in turns.

But, probably, it would be cool to fuck a chick with Beka? Pictures vividly began dancing before his eyes. After tequila, they became even more picturesque, and Yura did not even notice how a chick’d disappeared from his imagination, that was one for two, and only Altin remained. Altin and his demonic black slanted mocking eyes.

The leading speaker announced that at last DJ Altin would be on fire for them today. All the chicks squealed. And Podlisa with the Star of Immunity, and others did so. Behind the console, a pervert-hateful asshole appeared. With pretentious headphones and, that t-shirt with “Hell's Angels”. He mixed cool. And he drove a bike cool. And he smirked so cool. And he looked, and kissed, and in general!

Having deciding that if he didn’t get up from the table, he would kill fucking everyone, Yura threw off his leather jacket and went to the dance floor. In fact, he could dance and did it well. In the childhood, his mother even took him to a dance school. Nikiforov in general spent all his life dancing, working as a choreographer at the College of Art. In general, Yura's career as a dancer ended when he saw Vitya, sucking with some guy. He was always said, that, his brother was a gay. Normal ones didn’t dance. And they were right. And Yura got rid of it. He's not like that. No. It’s not like that. He was not like that before, anyway.

Plisetsky was somewhere in the center. Well, what, Altin, Kazakh-biker, do see me from your towering corner with a remote control? Do you see well? Well, look, you are such a pussy bastard.

He saw, even showed his thumb pulled with cut skin and turned on another breaking, fiery melody. A strange velvety, deep voice was singing such a song that Yura regretted that he knew English.

_Wanna go for a ride?_

_So get in the car_

_And I won’t hurt you_

_Unless you ask me_

_to Hurt you…boy***_

Plisetsky scored on everything. On the words, on the people around, on the pussy-fucking beautiful face of Altin, and just disappeared into the music and movements. The body, it turned out, was bored. He missed the ballet class, stretch movements that he did the best of all, complex movements that he grabbed on the fly, turning them into something with a meaning.

_Now take off your clothes_

_I wanna take pictures of you_

_I wanna capture you in digital_

_I wanna take pictures of you_

_Boy***_

He did not notice how the crowd parted in a circle, freeing him the entire dance floor, how people were clapping and whistling. Yura did not see the DJ's eyes riveting on him. He was just dancing trying not to think, but still wondering if Otabek hinted at something or turned it on by chance?

The voice pecked in the very nature. So what, Altin? It's like, until I want it myself, you won't do anything? So you do not do that, I myself do. Or you’ll do? Do you do something with me with every breath that you don't see? Yes, you see everything, Beka. All you see.

The track was replaced by another one. Then, again and again. Yura was dancing. Alone, then, with someone, then, with the whole crowd. It was fun. He was exhausted in such a way that he could not stand on his feet. He was dancing all the crap out of the head. Then it was empty.

Otabek took him from the dance floor and literally sat him on the bike. His legs and hands did not obey. Yura barely forced himself to cross his fingers on Altin’s stomach and dozed off, having leaned against his back. In the hostel, he simply fell asleep, having ignored both the shower and the undressing, and the tea offered by Otabek, and talks. And, most of all, thoughts. He’ll think about it tomorrow. Like Scarlett did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes:
> 
> * There is a 9 minute video. “O, sortie” is called, a documentary film about this place.
> 
> ** Khlebnikov’s poem, naturally.
> 
> *** Timo Maas feat. Brian Molko “Pictures” (slasher’s anthem, eh?)


	7. M-4

The curtains on the windows of their rooms were thick and did not let in any sunlight, so when waking up, Yura did not immediately realize what time of day it was. Having reached out, he groped for a phone showing 1:15, and judging by the fact that they came back much later than at one in the morning, it was day. Plisetsky turned his head to the next bed, but he saw that it was empty and made, as if Beck had not gone to bed at all. And, Yura wondered, where he was.

Having thrown off the blanket, Yura found that he was still in the club clothes, and it became clear why it was so uncomfortable. Leather pants had unpleasantly stuck to the body, T-shirt had been rolled up and dug into the skin, having left red stripes. He let Victor know that he was alive, dabbled in the shower, having looked into the common room beforehand, but, having made sure that Altin was not there, Plisetsky threw him a short “where are you” in WhatsApp.

Otabek appeared when Yura was already sitting on the bed, wearing his favorite ripped jeans and a light T-shirt, wiping his hair with a towel. Beka entered the room indecently pleased and first of all took off his very heavy leather jacket. Plisetsky raised his eyes to him and instantly glared at the huge bruise on the biker's neck. That, what, a hickey? Well, of course. 

Yesterday, Otabek, for sure, not being broken off, brought Yura to their room, left him to sleep, and drove himself to his Podlizas and Stars. Plisetsky's lips whitened with anger. Having noticed such a sharp change in his mood, Beck raised an eyebrow and looked inquiringly at Yura, as if saying, “What has happened?”.

– Is it a hickey? – asked Plisetsky, for some reason, jumping out of bed, as if he was going to fight.

– And? – Оn the face of the biker did not flinch any muscle, only in the eyes flashed a mocking red glitter.

– What is "and"? Are you fucking kidding me?

– I do not understand you, – Beck grunted and went, as if nothing had happened, to put the phone on charge.

If Yura had been asked why he had become angry, he would not have had an adequate answer. He did not know himself. More precisely, maybe he knew, but to formulate so that it did not sound stupid, did not work. However, Beka did just that. He asked why Yura was angry.

– Nothing! – grumbled Plisetsky. – Are you normal or what? You’ve thrown me here, and gone to your women!

– I don’t see any problem, Yura, – Otabek waved aside, flopping on his bed. – You wanted to sleep and wasn’t adequate. I did not want to sleep ...

– You wanted to fuck!

– Let's say so, – Altin said calmly. – So what?

– Never mind! It’s nothing that you’ve come back with this disgusting hickey and are shining with it in front of me?!

– Give me one reason why I shouldn’t do this, – Beck fixed at him with his demonic eyes. – Besides the one that hickey is just not aesthetically pleasing, – he chuckled.

– Yes, because, – confused Yura, – because ...

– Well ...

– ... because it’s me who should leave a hickey on your neck! – snapped Plisetsky defeated.

\- So do it, – Otabek said simply with his vile, nasty, disgusting, stunning, charming, mind-blowing, stupid smile.

It’s worked like a red rag for the bull. Plisetsky darted off and in one step covered the distance between them. Having thrown his legs over the biker's hips, he clutched in Altin’s hair with his hands and practically pressed Beck’s lips into his. Having thrown the guy on the bed, Yura walked his tongue along Altin's as if having been carved from a stone chin and stuck to his neck, leaving his mark next to the one that was infuriating him so much.

– Yura, – Otabek said exhaling.

– Shut up. Do not say anything.

Plisetsky returned to the biker's lips, which were clearly the primary cause of problems for his roof, then, reluctantly interrupting the kiss, pulled his shirt off, returning to what he had begun.

– Hey, take it easy, – Altin whispered, languidly resisting Yura’s pressure, – what are you going to do?

– To fuck, – Plisetsky growled, struggling, as usually, when he didn't get what he wanted, that very minute.

– Are you sure?

– No, – came the honest answer.

– Then, – Beka with a force tore off that wild cat from himself, – let me know when you are sure.

Having thrown Yura on the bed beside him, Altin got up and, barely noticeably staggering, went away to a distance, which he apparently thought was safe.

– Yes, you are fucking kidding me, – Yura extended, hiding his face in his hands. – Just ... fuck ... at all.

– Gather your things, Yura, – Beck said sternly. – We have to release the room. And ... breakfast is waiting. Be quicker.

Totally frantic and absolutely not understanding what he wanted and what he thought about all that, Plisetsky stuffed a few things into his rucksack and, surprisingly, recently acquired pants and a T-shirt got in there too. He went to the common room, where Otabek, sitting on a high bar stool, was waiting for him, with some food from KFC and some coffee from McDuck. Plisetsky’s favorite combination. Wow. He had fucked on the side, but he didn't forget about Yura's preferences. Caring, goat.

They were chewing in silence, Altin was picking into his phone, and Yura was carefully examining the trace having left by him, comparing it with a stranger’s. And that's bad luck. They were somehow too different. And the point there was clearly not in the expiration date. The first mark was more like a bruise, which was obtained if the skin had been scratched for a long time. Plisetsky’s hickey was the way it must be.

– Beka? – called Yura, it seemed, understanding.

– Mmm?

– It was not a hickey, was it?

– No, it wasn’t, – apparently trying very hard not to neigh, Altin said, put down the phone and stared at Yura pretty much. – A mosquito.

– And you’ve spent the night here.

– Yeah.

– What the fuck have you mocked at me? – right now. Now he will pour this damn coffee into a beautiful, imperturbable face!

– It wasn’t that, – Beck grunted. – You yourself have invented everything. I just ... did not deny it.

– And why the fuck didn’t you deny asshole!

– Why should I make excuses, Yura? – it seems, he’s finally got angry. – Even if so. Who are you to me? A boyfriend? Not. I have no obligations to you. And if I want, then I have every right to go where I’ll want and do what I’ll want with who I’ll want, – Beka was right. Damn right, only it’s frozen even more. – And until you want to change something between us, Yura, it will be like this.

– Fuck you! – Plisetsky threw an uneaten burger on the table, grabbed a rucksack, threw a couple of bills on the table, like, for the hostel, and dumped into the sunset. Well, he thought so.

Altin didn’t follow him. And he did the right thing. If Yura were him, he would not go either. Well, what a scene he had played! When the girls played up something similar to him, in the style of drama-queen, those girls were immediately removed from his life. Plisetsky hated senseless fucking of brain, but then he was engaged in it. And how had it happen? The fucking biker, with his fucking motorcycle, in his fucking biker jacket!

Abusing Otabek, on which the world stood, as if he was to blame for his beauty, completely ruining Plisetsky, Yura went forward, intending more quickly to find a ride and go to Novorossiysk alone. It’s even good that it had happened so. It’s better for them not to cross. Beka was some kind of delusion. Plisetsky was not like that. He's a normal kid who liked boobs, who didn't become hysterical if his friends spent time with girls. And Altin ... well, he would quickly be able to find a replacement for him. Wishing persons to go with a cool biker was a dime a dozen. Yes, and he worked on all fronts. He wouldn’t break off.

A clear picture appeared in his head, as Beka was slowing down next to some pretty chick or cute guy. He took off his helmet, as fascinatingly as self-indulgent as only he could. He estimated an alleged person with a not readable, but mocking glance. And he asked in his manner: “Are you going or not? And that one was driving. Of course, you are. You had to be an idiot to refuse him. You had to be an idiot to get away from him.

You are that idiot, Yura. You are the idiot.

Plisetsky sat on the curb and hugged his knees. Would Beck be back at the hostel if he returned? Or had he already left? Maybe, to call? Yeah, and, what to say? If you had done something, then do it to the end. Like, leaving - go, all things.

When he got up, in order to make sure to go on a farther journey alone, he heard the noise of an approaching motorcycle. Otabek was not long in coming.

– You’ve forgotten your phone, – Altin said gloomily, taking Yura’s phone from his leather jacket. – Take it or not? – He asked irritably, while Yura was standing and not moving, staring blankly at the phone.

– Beka, – Plisetsky squeaked plaintively, seeing Otabek for the first time in such quiet rage. – Sorry. I shouldn't have ...

– Sit down. Do not be stupid, Yura! Either, you sit on the damn bike, or take your phone, and I will go! Only faster. It is forbidden to stop here, as if… – he said suddenly, softly, glancing into Plisetsky’s dumbfounded eyes. – Come on, Yura. Let’s go.

Plisetsky jumped on the motorcycle and pressed himself against Otabek's back as hard as he could. Suddenly Altin stroked his fingers. Yura seemed to be forgiven.

M-4 met them again with kilometers of asphalt and an endless stream of cars. The southern slopes are always loaded in season. The road, refueling stations, the wind whistling in their ears – all that had become so familiar, so theirs. And even if some tension was still between them, it was still good. Three hours later, Otabek slid to the side of the road and, under Jura's uncomprehending gaze, jumped off the bike, took off his helmet. Having thought that something had happened to the motorcycle, Plisetsky followed his example and also took his helmet off. When he tried to jump off the bike, Altin stopped him, took the helmet from his hands and hung it on the steering wheel, next to his. Then he deftly jumped on the motorcycle, facing Yura, took the bewildered guy by the chin, pulled him in and greedily kissed, having buried his fingers into his blond hair.

– Have you fallen in love now? – asked Plisetsky into Otabek’s lips when they had to break away from each other to take a little bit of air.

– Yes.

– Me, too.


	8. Novorossiysk

As you know, Novorossiysk is not officially recognized as a resort city of Russia. This is not surprising. The multi-kilometer coastline is mainly occupied by ships and ports. And, nevertheless, tourists come here every summer to relax. Beka called Novorossiysk the capital of bikers’ rallies, although he did not mention whether something like that was waiting for him in the near future. They never decided whether that would be their last point, or to rush through cities of Krasnodar Region was a good idea. On the one hand, since they had had a bike, time and thirst for roads and nomadic life, why not? On the other hand, the road was serpentine. Dangerous and loaded one. In general, Altin said he would think.

Even before having rented a house, eaten or relaxed, the guys first came to a deserted wild pebble beach. Naturally, the infrastructure was absent: there were neither changing rooms, nor a shower - for that it was wild. But that was exactly what the guys liked the most. They quickly threw off their clothes, remaining in their shorts, and rushed into the sea, which was blossoming and not with crystal clarity. But those were such little things. Screaming and splashing like small children, Yura and Otabek had spent for at least an hour in the water, which had led to inevitable burning of Plisetsky.

– Yeah, it’s not Turkey, – said Yura, with a hiss putting on a T-shirt.

– Not Turkey, – agreed Otabek. – We need to go to the pharmacy, – he concluded, examining Plisetsky’s red shoulders and neck. – And to the store. Best of all in this case helps egg yolk.

– And where will we live? – Yura snickered, realizing that night was coming already.

– Maybe, shall we look for any apartments? – Altin offered busily, starting googling options.

– So that guards would not disturb us? – said Yura, squinting slyly. –Well ... alone, right?

Otabek looked up from the screen and carefully looked at Yura with a long look. Then he said: “Yes,” and returned to the search.

Yura’s stomach rumbled. When Beka agreed with the owners of the apartment having been liked, that they would drive up in half an hour, Plisetsky began to pray that he would be allowed to devour something, but Otabek cut off the strict "no."

– And why is that? – Surprised Jura was saddling the iron horse.

– I will cook you dinner, I do not want you to interrupt your appetite.

Yura’s heart sank. Who is having a girl dinner, with that she is dancing, isn’t he? Yura’s attitude to such a statement was twofold. He wanted to say: “ Am I your chick or something, to cook me dinner?” And he also wanted to say: “Oh, how cool and romantic”. And what was closer to him, Yura did not know. He knew that he was in love, but he did not like it. He liked such feelings, but not the presence of them. He wanted Otabek, he wanted to shiver. But he did not want to want.

The apartment was the same as in the photo: comfortable and clean. Located on the eighth floor it had a large balcony, which overlooked the sea. The sight of massive ships, the waving water surface and the twilight city was truly worth the money they had paid, having decided to start to linger for five days. The owner of the apartment turned out to be a woman in her early thirties, energetic and not at all pretentious. She quickly conducted a short tour of the apartment in the style: - "A kitchen, a toilet, a bedroom, a sitting-room", – took the money, left her phone number and a password from Wi-Fi and hurriedly left.

Otabek first of all began to study the contents of the kitchen. A microwave, a stove with an oven, various utensils. The guy chuckled, seemed satisfied.

– What do you want for dinner? – asked Beck to Jura, who was in some kind of prostration.

– I don’t know what you can do.

– Me? I can do everything, – smiled Otabek smugly. – Except sweet pastries. That's not mine.

– You know that I love all sorts of rubbish, like fast food. Can we order anything? – Attempt is not torture.

– Do you want lasagna? – did not give up Otabek.

– I want to, but it needs a long time ... – pleaded Plisetsky.

Altin rolled his eyes, rummaged in his rucksack and pulled out a chocolate bar.

– Have some tea and take a shower, – he commanded. – I'm going to the shop. You can even take a nap. And when it's ready, I'll call you.

Having sighed heavily, Yura flipped the button on the electric kettle, looking frowningly at the biker hiding in the doorway.

***

Plisetsky really fell asleep after having showered, and was woken up with gentle touches to his face. Having opened sleepy, dull eyes, he found Beck admiring him openly. It was ... strange and unusual, and very exciting.

– You are incredibly beautiful, – Otabek said in a low, breaking voice.

He himself was sitting on the floor, next to the bed, staring shamelessly, biting his weathered lips, tracing the outline of Yura’s face with his fingers.

– I'm not your type, – answered Plisetsky, wildly embarrassed, although embarrassment was usually what he experienced last.

– I’ve lied, – the Kazakh replied, choking. – You are not just to my taste. You are my taste.

– I knew you’d fucked with me! – Yura got up being indignant. He shook his head and did not even want to think what kind of mess there was on it then after having fallen asleep, without even having bothered to dry it. – And why have you told a lie?

– Well, uh, – Beka could not resist and touched his golden mane, – you’ve reacted in such a way that I ... well, I wanted to roll up to you, but I didn’t know how. And I had not come up with anything better than to pretend that I did not like you. Usually, it hurt those like you. And they climbed out of their own skin to be liked. It seems to work, doesn’t it?

– No, – snorted Yura. – You’re pissing me off, and I hate you!

– Exactly, it looks like this, – Beck laughed. – Let’s go to eat.

Plisetsky rolled his eyes, fighting another twofold feeling. That's kind of cool, but Altin still was a fucked asshole. Well, who does that?

The dinner, thanks God, was not by candlelight, as Yura feared. There was just a coffee table, served with two plates and forks. Delicious smelling and appetizing looking lasagna stood in the center.. Plisetsky sat down in Turkish, having put a pillow from the sofa under his ass, right on the floor. Beka returned from the kitchen, having dragged two cans of cold beer.

– Why not any wine? – Yura snorted, taking the can.

– You said you didn't like wine, – Otabek shrugged.

– Really? When? – Sincerely surprised Plisetsky. There was a characteristic pshik of synchronously opening cans.

– When you were lashing beer with buckets, in Voronezh, – Altin smirked again smugly and stretched out the can to knock. Yura frowned, but knocked.

Lasagna was divine, which Plisetsky voiced with his mouth full. Then he began to ask Beck to cook something traditionally Kazakh. Not then, of course, but someday.

– Well, everything you want.

– Everything is too much. And when it’s too much it’s almost nothing, - Yura philosophically remarked, noticeably having relaxed after eating and drinking.

– Let's go to smoke. – offered Beck. – Do you have any cigarettes?

– They seemed to be. Let's go.

Night fell on Novorossiysk. The sea seemed completely black. It merged on the horizon into a single blackness, beckoning into the abyss. Yura leaned on the railing of the unglazed balcony and peered into the distance. Otabek hugged him from behind and laid his head on Yura’s shoulder, breathing loudly in his ear. The guy was shaking a little; Yura himself could not stop some weary trembling in his whole body. Now. Now or never.

Plisetsky put out a cigarette and turned to face Beck. He wrapped his arms around Otabek’s neck and closed his eyes. Altin smelled with nicotine, beer, shower gel and stubborn odors of fuel stations and fuel itself that hadn’t disappeared even after water procedures.

– I'm sure, – said Yura, without opening his eyes. – I inform you.

The lips were dominated by other’s lips, the body was given to strong, persistent hands, and the mind simply left. Yura hoped that it was temporary, that the mind would turn on when the body ceased to be so good.

Initially, they were going to relax and stroll through the night city, swim in the sea one more time, but the scene on the balcony demanded a continuation and got it. Otabek seemed to have broken the chain and gave no respite. They stopped only when no one had any strength, with the first rays of the sun. Plisetsky's burnt shoulders were then still bitten and scratched, his whole body was strewn with marks from Altin’s fingers and teeth. However, Yura did not remain in debt. Beck also looked as if he had been beaten all night.

– I’ve fucked you, Beka, – Yura said being pleased, sipping and practically falling asleep. – And not once.

– Hmm, so have I, - Altin grumbled. Having found the most comfortable position, he stretched out on the bed, having put his leg on Yura, who had already had the tenth dream. – Holy fuck, - he grunted, smiling to himself. - Nikiforov will be speechless.

With those pleasant thoughts, Otabek also fell asleep.


	9. Novorossiysk again

– Gay sex – is it always so painful, Beka? – Yura groaned when they woke up, and he tried to stretch. – Why does it feel like I was twatted?

– No, Yura, – Beck replied, wincing at every movement, too. – Usually this is not the case. You’ve turned on the mad killer mode. It was as if I was fucking with a wild lion, and not with a man, – he took Yura by the wrist and skeptically examined the distinct bruises in the form of fingers. – I hope you're not always like that. The second time I’ll hardly be able to stand it.

Otabek somehow slid off the bed. His back was strewn, shoulders were marked with teeth. Fucking shit! Yesterday they both really blew off the tower. It was not sex, but some kind of insane battle not for life but for death. The winner, it seemed, was not in it.   
– There will be no breakfast, – Beck announced, and slammed the bathroom door.

None wanted to have breakfast. Yura wanted to swim in the ointment for bruises and burns. And at the same time he wanted to repeat everything. Maybe not so zealously, a little more gently, but no one was going to stop at what had already been achieved.

Analyzing what had happened was also not worth. It’s strange, of course, how it’d happened, but, fucking great. So, it’s okay.

Soon Beka returned, but Plisetsky was still lying dead and looking at Vitya’s new photos and his beloved Japanese. Their happy faces annoyed less than usual.

– Let’s take a selfi? – offered Yura, moving closer to Otabek. – If you really do something, then do it to the end. Let everyone will be in fucking shock.

– The original way to declare your change of orientation, – Beck chuckled, looking at the camera with his poker face. But he showed a “Victoria,” which meant he was pleased.

– I haven’t changed anything, – Yura mirrored the gesture. – I just ... I like you, and we do well to each other.

– Well, I don’t know, I don’t feel well, – Altin sat back on the pillow. Their photo session was over. – I have a bruise even on my penis, Yura. Everything hurts, even the hair that you’ve almost pulled me out of.

– I didn’t know that you were a sissy, – grumbled Plisetsky, adding filters to the photo he liked most, but he didn’t post it, but just sent to Nikiforov’s personal mail.

The answer from Victor came right there, and it was, to put it mildly, unexpected: – So, Altin’s bedded you already. What a guy, so tell it to him. 

– What? – said Yura out loudly, and he set it up to his brother.

– From where do you know him? – He quickly dialed, glancing at Beck, who covered his eyes and was not at all interested in what Yura was doing into his phone, – I didn’t say what his name was ... and even more so the last name!

– Oops.

And Victor did not write anything more and did not answer Yura’s bunch of question marks.

– From where do you know my brother, Beck? – Yura hissed, kicking Altin in the side.

– Ay, take it easy, – Beck opened his eyes, looking cautiously at Plisetsky, apparently determining his degree of frenzy. – We’ve intersected a couple of times, but what?

– That's what!

A telephone with the correspondence flew into Altin’s face, and if the guy hadn't skillfully caught him, probably he would have suffered a nose injury. Otabek ran his eyes across the screen and bit his lip.

– Well ... – he sighed and fell silent.

– You’ve again fucked with me! – Yura shouted, sat down on the bed, having forgotten about the pain, and violently blew the bright strand from his face. – What the fuck?

– No, I’ve not simply tell you the whole truth, – Altin replied in a steady voice.

– Have you specifically gone after me?

– No, honestly. No, – Beka pulled his hand to him, but then removed, having decided that it was not time to touch. That high voltage sign would be useful. – I’ve really stopped purely by chance. But I have seen you before.

Yura was burning him with green flame of the eyes, but saying nothing, just watching and listening, pursing the lips, ready to beat, any minute.

– I was a DJ at your graduation party, – Otabek continued, carefully choosing his words. – I’ve known Vitya before. We’ve never spoken closely with him, but we had mutual acquaintances. Sometimes we’ve intersected. And then ... you’d got so drunk in the trash.

Yura rolled his eyes. Well, yes, it’d been. Who hasn’t not got drunk on the prom? The graduation has been invented for that.

– When you were puking, I was holding your hair, – Beck grunted, – like in an American film.

– Oh, enough.

– And when you finished, – the Kazakh continued, starting enjoying that story, – you looked at me with your impossible eyes, – Yura’s sniff was heard, – and said that my cheekbones could be cut with. And you looked like that ...

– How? – A couple more phrases, and, Plisetsky will be the first to die from a disgruntled snort.

– Yes, that's how you’re looking now.

– And how?

– As if you love me and hate me at the same time.

Exactly, will die.  
–The second, – only muttered Yura. – I hate you. You’ve pranked me!

– Not at all! – Outraged Otabek. – I asked Vitya about you, and he told me to roll my lip. He said that you were not an option, that you were more natural than DANONE. And I’ve thrown this venture. And then I saw you on the track.

– And you began to prank me!!!

– To hunt.

– What?

– To hunt the wild tiger. And here you’ve been caught, – and he smiled his fucking-damning smile. – Well, do not be angry, Yura. Are you regretting anything?

– Yes!

– And if not to lie?

– No.

– Well, do not pout.

– You’re an asshole.

Otabek laughed almost soundlessly. Yura pretended to rage some more time. Then he asked for breakfast. He was all offended, wasn’t he?

***

They reached the beach in the evening, and on foot. None of them took the risk of taking the bike. They practically did not speak and moved little. They even went into the water just a couple of times, mostly lying on the leased lounge chairs. Yura read “The Quite Don”, Otabek listened to music on his headphones, occasionally looked through social networks and answered something to someone. Suddenly he laughed loudly and at Plisetsky’s questioning glance showed him the screen of his telephone. From the screen, JJ-J was looking at him, and there was nothing in the photo that would have caused laughter. Leroy came out well; there he was sitting on his bike on the background of beautiful mountains.

– T-shirt, – Otabek surrendered, when Plisetsky never got to.

Yura looked at JJ's red T-shirt with a maple leaf and the inscription... "ANAL". That was all that had remained of the proud "CANADA", the rest was hidden with straps from the rucksack.

– Hmmm, – Yura whistled, returning to the book. – By the way ...

– Mmm?

–You depend on social networks, – Plisetsky grumbled suddenly. –When will you remove Tinder and that nasty gay app?

He had been carrying out that question all day, seizing the moment when it would be possible to stick it into the conversation as best he could. Yura remembered that Beka had broken up with his ex because she was incredibly jealous, checked his correspondence, always suspected and acted like a paranoiac. Judging by how strangely Otabek looked at him, the moment was not a good one. Fuck.

– Well, – Altin cleared his throat and looked back. There had been no one near them for a long time, because normal people wanted to go to the sea in the morning. But where they were, and where normality was. – As soon as I have some serious relationship, I will immediately delete it, – he said impartially.

– And you haven’t got them yet?¬ ¬– flushed Plisetsky.

– You’ll tell me.

– And what is not clear? – Yura started to get angry again. Hello, they’ve come! Not only that they have crossed all the boundaries permitted, so now, like two girls, will discuss their relationship.

– Everything is clear, – Altin said coldly. – You just like me, and we do well to each other, – he quipped venomously. – Only ... it’s not enough for me to delete something or stop communicating with someone.

– You know what?

– What?

– I am not going to whisper you words of love under the moon! - growled Yura. – This is not serious and will end soon; – he did not know why he was saying that. 

Actually, everything was serious and should not have ended. Yura did not spend that night with Otabek because he wanted to expand his horizons or try something new. He wanted Otabek. Not because he was a guy, but because it was Otabek. Plisetsky was jealous of Beck for everything that moved. He was jealous of every girl that kept his eyes on him for more than a second, was jealous of JJ and Isabella, and that entire fucking world! He was terrified by the thought that they would return home. Yura – to Moscow, Altin – to his foolish Peter. How will they be? Plisetsky really thought about it and worried about all that. So why did he tell Beck any kind of nonsense?

– Then what's the claim, Yura? – Beck reacted quite logically, which pissed off even more.  
– Nothing, – he grunted.

– Then, I am sure, you will not mind if I leave you tonight, – Altin finished off. – I’ll spend it with someone who will not try to kill me for their own desires.

–Yes, of course, – Yura said, trying to give indifference to his voice.

And what did he expect, actually? Beka also clearly said that he had been “hunting.” Now he’s got what he wanted. And, it seemed, he did not really like it. It frustrated the most. Yes, they’d overdid it, yes, today the feeling that you’ve been taken out of the meat grinder, but the night itself ... It was inexpressible! Plisetsky has never been so good, he had no idea that it happens so well, in principle. Now, Mr. Me-all-the-fuck will go in search of a new prey. What a twist.

Yura chuckled his own thoughts and began chewing his lip. The eyes were being pinched. Well, you’ll still cry, come on! Although what is there. More a gay you won’t become. Everything’s already been done. Altin had been examining him closely and for a long time, but what exactly he was thinking thought was, as usual, not clear. Maybe, he had been pondering whether Plisetsky would come down for another couple of nights? Or is he just a scrap?

They reached the house in silence when the sun had set. Yura refused to have dinner, took a shower and laid himself on a sofa in another room, because when the biker returned from his sluts, Yura would not like Beck to lie down next to him.

– What are you doing? – Asked Beck, who did not look like he was going somewhere. Maybe too early?

– I’m paсking my things.

– I see. Why are you packing them?

– I'll go home tomorrow, Beka, by train. – Just don't cry, Jura. It will be absolutely sad.

– Have you bought tickets yet? – Altin asked without a hint of emotion.

– Yes.

– I see. Come on. In the morning, we’ll probably still cross.

He left Yura in the living-room, and Yura could but cry. Well, what the fuck? How had that happened? He lived as a normal guy. And, there, well. You’re crying like a bitch because of an unfeeling biker who’s fucked you and will soon forget what your name was. Why has he then said he’d fallen in love? So that Plisetsky thought that everything was serious. The next stage of "hunting"?

– What should I do so that you did not leave? – There was a hoarse voice behind, and Yura jerked, frantically wiping his tears on the pillow, which had previously perfectly drowned them. – Yura, – he sat down next to the floor. Well, it was dark, and Otabek just could not see that tearful, swollen face. – I’ve realized that you do not need all this, and you do not intend to make of this ... hmm ... adventure something serious. You don't care what I do and with whom ... It's ... hard, but ... no matter how much I want it, I realize that I can't make you be mine ... just mine. But at least don't leave, please stay with me more ... well, at least some time.

What? Is that how he’s understood everything? Fuck-I-I-aaa, what an idiot! The fabulous, fabulous asshole! Plisetsky started laughing funny. 

– Beka, you're a brake, okay? – Yura tried to calm down the laughter, the tears, it came out badly. – What were you listening to me with at all? I’ve freaked out because ... oh, fuck. I’ve had a crush on you, what is not understandable? And I thought that it was you, the one who believed that we were not serious ...

No, Altin was not a brake; he put Yura in a kiss until they told each other too much. Having freaked out, Plisetsky stopped behaving as if on the battlefield, and the caress began to go out sensual and tender, even cautious and indecisive. It was strange that yesterday both of them were sure of what they were doing, and today they were afraid of every movement.

– I love you. – Beka said suddenly, gently stroking Yura’s back, who had moved onto his knees. - That is ... right ... I really love. Sorry…

– You’re an idiot, – hissed Plisetsky, pressing his forehead against Otabek's one. – What are you apologizing for?

– For having pulled you into the relationship you’ve never wanted, – he replied grimly.

– Oh, well, enough. Come on without drama, okay? I love you too, Beka. Really love, – he mocked. – If I did not love, there would be nothing...

– When is the train?

– Well, never! Why are you so complicated!!!

– Am I?!

– You! You, Beka, you are complicated, –Plisetsky hissed in Otabek’s ear. – You are unbearable, you’re pissing me off. Every second. You’re pissing up because you're cool and fucking awesome. And with you I fell amazingly fucking awesome. And I do not want you to go to Peter. Come on, will you move to me in Moscow? – Yura said it just like that, realizing that the request was too serious. What he did not expect, so, well, a positive response.

– Yes, okay, fine.

– WHAT?!

– You do not want? – Fingers on Yura's back were strained. Barely noticeable.

– I want, of course, what are you ... but ... how?

– My father was going to open a branch in Moscow, he had long asked me to go and help. So that…

– Oh, God, Beka! It…

Words were not needed, and if there was some kind of understatement, they coped with it non-verbally.


	10. Instead of an epilogue

Otabek was sitting in a cafe near Moscow State University and sipping his second coffee. Inside it was warm and cozy, unlike what’s happening outside the window. It was neither snowing, no raining. Chilly, dirty and gray winter was supposed to spoil the mood, but it did not spoil. Into the sole, the birds were singing anyway, however, in Til Lindemann’s voice which was playing in his headphones.

Altin was staring at the window, examining how not snow was imprinting on the glass, turning into not water and flowing down with dirty drops. From the contemplation of the weather his own heart tore him, suddenly having made a somersault. He looked up. At the entrance stood a fair-haired guy with Basilisk look. Look in his eyes and die! The guy rolled with gloomy eyes around all visitors and, finally, noticed Otabek. His face was immediately adorned with a slight smile, making him almost angelic.

– Have you passed? – Having taken off the headphones Beka asked Plisetsky, who plopped down opposite.

Yura nodded and blew on his stiff fingers. Having spat on people around, Altin began to rub his cold hands, struggling with the desire to kiss each of those long-suffering fingers.

– Yes, I’ve passed, – Yura replied inhibited, looking with enamored eyes. – They said it was the best course-paper they’d seen, only they didn’t like the name, – he frowned. - The Hitchhiker's Guide is not a scientific one, – he parodied one of the teachers.

– I told…

– Oh, that's it, – Yura dismissed. – In general, I’ve officially started the vacations. Where will we go?

– I thought we were going to Vitya and Yuri's wedding, – Beka was surprised. – You are a groomsman...

– Fuck them.

– Okay.

– I've read Burroughs here, – Plisetsky bit his lip and paused.

– Mexico, or what?

– Why not? Have you been to Mexico?

– No.

– So you will.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P. S.  
> I’ve decided to add a comment, because the sudden end was a surprise for me, for sure, and for readers. Perhaps someone will say that the end is crumpled, that it looks as if I am tired of writing this story, and I’ve cut it off. This is not quite so, just further I see no point. It would be possible to describe the remaining days in Novorossiysk, a trip home. There are still a couple of jokes off screen, but I did not.
> 
> I explain why (I see the need to explain). My Otabek, as often in fiks about Plibek, is such a neuro-friendly (well, we all know that this is figurative, but literally just ... oh, sorry), perfect guy. And his love is always (in my mind, at least, in my head, and, moreover, in written, unfinished, and even those that are still at the level of ideas, stories) expressed in the fact that he plays on Yura’s conditions. He is ready to shove away his "want", if only that green-eyed demon was happy. In fact, this story is about how one, in the next variation, waited quietly, and the other matured. The first has waited. The second has ripened. So the final is, then it would be more than a shake of the keyboard, but I do not like it.
> 
> P.S.S.
> 
> Now, thanks. As usual, thanks to everyone who’s read. Special thanks to those who’s liked it, and most of all to those who’s put pluses from the very beginning. Seriously, guys, when you like from the first chapter, I am touched, but I feel such a RESPONSIBILITY, which is terrible. Those who’s read the ready work are not so terribly disappointed than those who were near, wrote comments from the first chapter.   
> In general, thank you all very much!   
> And, of course, many thanks to my co-author (she also was a translator), without her everything would have been worse!  
> Love to all!
> 
> Russian: https://ficbook.net/readfic/8240999


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